Through sheer apprehension, Desmond was now keyed up to a kind of desperate audacity. The truth is sometimes a very effective weapon in the game of bluff, and Desmond determined to employ it.
“I saw someone I didn’t want to meet,” he replied.
“Ah!” said Mortimer, “who was that, I wonder? The Dyke Inn could hardly be described as a frequented resort, I imagine!”
The entry of old Martha to change the plates prevented Desmond from replying. He used the brief respite to review the situation. He would tell Mortimer the truth. They were man to man now and he cared nothing even if the other should discover the fraud that had been practised upon him. Come what might, Mortimer, dead or alive, should be delivered up to justice that night.
The housekeeper left the room and Desmond spoke.
“I saw an officer I knew in the courtyard,” he said.
“Oh, Strangwise, I suppose!” said Mortimer carelessly. “There’s nothing to fear from him, Bellward. He’s of the beef and beer and no brains stamp of British officer. But how do you know Strangwise?”
“I met him at the Nineveh Hotel in town one night,” replied Desmond. “I don’t care about meeting officers, however, and that’s a fact!”
Mortimer looked at him keenly for a brief instant. “What prudence!” he cried. “Bellward, you are the very model of what a secret agent should be! This pheasant is delicious!”
He turned the conversation into a different channel but Desmond could not forget that brief searching look. His mind was in a turmoil of half-digested facts, of semi-completed deductions. He wanted to go away somewhere alone and think out this mystery and disentangle each separate web of this baffling skein of intrigue.